The Devil of Perdido Beach
by relagon
Summary: A boy wakes up on a beach under the scorching sun. He can't remember his name or his past. But others do, others who fear the mention of his name and some who see potential in his past. His name is Drake Merwin. Can he become the person he once was? Does he want to become that person? A dangerous new world after the FAYZ may force him to make that decision.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Flashes, horrible vivid images coursed through his mind. Images that made no sense, barraged his brain. It was a horrific freak show, a dark and macabre first person view of what must be the most traumatic horror film ever, fragmented and sketchy, which just made it all the more confusing and terrifying.

These were the first images the boy's brain conjured up upon gaining a faint consciousness. His brain, once it had sorted the fragmented memories into their rightful places set to work on restoring his body. It activated his heart; blood began to pump through him, the first in a long time. Synapses began firing, nerves began to awaken. One by one, the boy's bodily functions all came to working order. There were only two places that the brain could not yet figure out how to manage. One was its own cerebrum, its own memories, which were damaged and unfocused. And the other, was the boys right arm, or what was left of it.

It would have to wait. Now it was time to wake him up and let him take his first breath, the first in a very long time.

The boy gasped, taking in salty sea air and sand. His pale blue eyes shot open and blinding light menaced them instantly. Smells drafted up through his nose, salt, water, fresh air, the smell of the ocean. That much he remembered. The sunlight was hot and bright, and it felt like it was scorching his skin mercilessly. He took in more breaths and his vision came to focus on blue sky, with a giant nuclear ball shining in its center. He turned away from the damned thing, and saw sand, and the brilliant blue of the ocean. Yes, he remembered, he knew what this represented. An instinct spoke one word to him. Home.

He sat up slowly, everything in him aching. He was naked. His fevered brain tried to process its contents.

Where was he? It had no answer to that.

Why was he here? No solution could be found in his mind.

Who was he?

That question gave him pause. No answer came, nothing, he didn't know who he was. He slowly stood up, not even taking notice of his exposed state. Then as he brought his hands up to wipe sand from his face he realized something terrible, his right arm was gone. He yelped and stumbled in shock, hyperventilating as he stared at the stump that was once his arm, a nub of flesh, with what looked like dry scales and dead skin flaking off of it and disappearing into the sea breeze. This was wrong, completely and utterly wrong. Who was he? Where was his arm? Where was he?

As he plagued himself with questions, faint memories came back, memories through the eyes of someone who was not entirely human, who couldn't be human. Terrible visions of death, suffering, sadism, monsters… and a whipped hand.

He feared something, one thing, more than all the confusion at this time. He feared that these were his own memories. He hoped they weren't. With shambling steps on shaky legs, he began to walk, heading down the stretch of beach he was now on.

Within fifteen minutes, he found something, a faint shimmer in the distance. As he moved closer, he began to realize it was moving towards him. A black SUV was driving along the beach. It continued on until it was just 30 feet away from him. He stumbled towards it. Three men in black body armor exited the vehicle, approaching him with caution. They each had a taser and a pistol strapped to their belts.

"My God," one muttered, staring at the pitiful teenager.

"He… help me, please, where am I?" croaked the boy, stopping just ten feet from the nearest man.

One of the men unfurled a towel and wrapped it around the boy's shoulders. The boy was tall, and had a mop of matted blonde hair.

"It's OK son, you're safe now," exclaimed the man who had put the towel around him gently.

"Can you tell me your name?" asked another man.

The boy hesitated.

"I… I can't remember," he somberly declared.

The man who had asked him nodded and pulled out what looked like a small PDA from his pocket and held it up in the boy's direction.

The last man spoke into a radio on his shoulder, reporting their discovery to a base somewhere. The man with the towel spoke to the boy.

"I know you're confused and scared, but it is all going to be ok. We will get you back to your parents soon. You're safe n-"

The man with the PDA spoke up, a furrowed expression on his face as he gazed at the screen on the small device;

"Sir, you're going to want to see this."

The man with the boy walked over to the man and looked at the screen. A confused expression swept over his face. Soon, however, it was replaced by an expression that was a mixture of fear, worry and shock. He turned to the boy, gazing at him with piercing eyes of disbelief.

"It's him," he stated. The boy's relief quickly turned to fear and worry.

"It's who, sir?" the radio man asked. With a pause, the towel man answered.

"It's Drake Merwin."

All three of them stared at Drake in disbelief and shock. Drake was utterly bewildered. Was that his name? Why did it unsettle these men so much?

"Please, I don't know what's happening, just tell me what's going on?" he pleaded as he took a step forward.

The towel man grabbed the taser strapped to him and leveled it at Drake and yelled;

"Don't move! Don't you take another step or I will take you down!"

Drake froze. What was this? Why were they now so hostile? What did his name mean? All he could conjure up were those gruesome images. Surely they couldn't be his memories.

"What? No, please, you don't understand, I don't remember anything! Please just-" he stopped as the two prongs of the stun gun connected with the flesh of his chest and all of his muscles began to burn.

He crumpled to the sand as PDA guy and towel man rushed over to him and held him down as radio man frantically spoke into his walkie talkie. As the two men tried to subdue him, Drakes terrified mind managed to pull something out of its hurt and convoluted contents. Not a memory, but an instinct. A deep fire suddenly consumed his mind that was even more intense than the burning in his muscles. With a feral roar that escaped his mouth with the force of a roaring lion, Drake swung around and punched towel guy straight on the nose. As the man fell back, his nose instantly bloody, the new rage spurred Drake on. He turned and gave PDA guy a lethal head-butt to the face. As the man yelled and snapped back, Drake advanced on him, pinning him down and punching him again and again, fiery hatred now completely consuming him. He did not notice, but he began to laugh wildly as he threw fist after fist at the man's increasingly damaged head, a Picasso painting of blood forming on his attackers face. Then another surge of power caused him to spasm and collapse to the sand. He stared up at the blue sky, immense pain wracking his body, as radio man stood over him with a stun gun that trailed two wires into Drakes back. As consciousness began to slip away, a thought re-entered Drakes mind, just one sentence.

"Those memories couldn't be mine, could they?"

Then, lights out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The myriad of horrors played out in front of Drake's eyes over and over again. It was like being a video game, the most horrific and realistic video game ever created. He was viewing past experiences through the eyes of someone who could only be described as one thing; evil. Twisted bodies, feral beasts, a shape shifting green force and long tentacle like whip which committed most of the atrocities he saw before him. All of it, playing over and over again.

Then he awoke, and he was once again blinded by awful light. But this was not sunlight, which could burn, blind and most certainly piss a guy off, but it was still tolerable and even beautiful. No, this was artificial light, the kind that confused, disorientated and made Drake feel sick. He was in a white room, strapped to a gurney. His head was fastened and secured tight.

His breathing became rapid. He began to panic. He clenched his teeth and struggled with his bonds.

"Don't bother," a low voice came from an unseen corner, "we were quite thorough in making sure you wouldn't be able to escape. After all, you are officially dead."

A shadow appeared, blotting out the light from Drake's vision. He was a middle aged man, with a handsome face, brown eyes and a neat blonde mullet. He wore a white suit from what Drake could tell.

"Sir, there is a misunderstanding, please just… let me go, untie me please. I have no clue what is going on Sir, I can't remember anything!" pleaded Drake.

The man in the suit smirked, a soft, but menacing chuckle escaping him.

"Wow! I did not expect that that would be the first sentence I heard spoken from the infamous Drake Merwin. I expected something a little more… well, you I guess." He leered.

Drakes face contorted in confusion.

"What? I… I don't know what you're talking about. How do you know me?"

"Everyone in the civilised world knows about you, Mr Merwin."

"Who am I? W-What did I do?" asked Drake, his voice shaking.

The man smiled and walked out of view.

"You really don't remember anything, do you? Not a single peep?" asked the man.

"Goddammit what should I remember?! I have no idea what you are on about!" declared Drake, frustration and anger edging into his voice.

Suddenly a massive shock coursed through his body. Drake yelled in pain as the electricity subsided.

"What the fuck was that?!" demanded Drake, panting from the shock.

"A quick shot of electricity to speed up your heart and speed up the drug that is currently flowing through your veins," stated the man in an almost smug manner.

"Drug? What the hell is this? I didn't-" another shock cut him off.

He cried out in pain again, swearing at the top of his lungs. A rapid beeping came from his left. A man spoke, stating that Drake was reading positive for something.

"Very well, take him to genetics, make sure you receive the necessary readings," ordered the man in the suit.

Two men appeared by Drakes side and began to wheel his gurney down a white corridor.

"No wait, please, I just want to know what is going on! I don't remember anything! I don't remember fucking anything!" Drake yelled as he was carted away.

The next few hours were the most painful Drake ever experienced, from what he could remember anyway. Men and women in hazmat suits had injected him time and time again with chemicals that felt like acid coursing through his veins. At one point they had cut open his side with an electric bone saw, it's awful whirring almost as loud as Drake's screams. Scalpels scraped tissue away, dose after dose of pain was inflicted upon him until finally they seemed satisfied with what they had discovered. Drake finally stopped screaming. His hearing was dulled, muffled voices of nearby surgeons and doctors echoed into his mind. His breathing was shallow. His mind was blank, recovering from the physical and mental torture it had just undergone. As he lay there, lucid and half dead, he did not hear the man in the white suit give his final verdict. He did not hear the man say that Drake was of no more use, and that he was a failed subject. He did not hear him give the order to terminate him.

The next thing Drake felt was needle puncturing his neck, unloading its malicious contents into his bloodstream. Three seconds later, a black cloud swept over his brain. He couldn't breathe. He gasped and struggled momentarily as the poison shut down his bodily functions within seconds. He let out a final gargle of pain as his eyes shut slowly, and the last thing he thought was the notion of whatever was waiting for him after, if anything at all, would be better than this.

Drake Merwin fell still, dead on the operating table. Two doctors, a man and a woman unplugged him from the many devices and monitors he was connected to and placed a white sheet over his face. As they turned to put away their ghastly tools, they failed to notice the pale blue eyes of Drake Merwin shoot open. What came next, however, would make them wish they had been more careful.

Drake Merwin howled in rage and terror as he sprung upright, tearing free of his bonds with inhuman strength. The male doctor whipped around just in time to see a large operating knife pierce his shoulder and gush blood. He screamed in pain and fell back, clutching the blade now imbedded in his flesh. Drake grabbed the female doctor by the back of the neck as she began to flee and pulled her to him just as a security guard came through the white sheets that surrounded the operating theatre. With ferocious speed, he reached out and wrenched the blade from the writing doctor's shoulder, earning a spray of blood and an agonised screech as he held the bloody knife up to the other doctor's throat. The guard raised his pistol, but Drake had the doctor between himself and the guard. Three more guards joined the current one, weapons raised.

"Back off! Back the fuck off or I'll slit her throat, I'll cut her throat you fucking assholes!" roared Drake with frightening conviction.

The woman struggled and cried out as Drake pressed the blade tighter. The man in the suit entered the theatre behind the guards.

"You, tell them to stand down, tell them to stand the hell down or this bitch gets cut!" exclaimed Drake, in a frenzied mode of panic and rage.

The man in the suit raised his arms.

"Whoa everyone calm down, calm down please!" he spoke in a relatively calm manner. "Guards, lower your weapons and back off," he ordered.

Hesitantly they complied. Drake's eyes were brimmed red with boiling rage. The woman whimpered as the blade pressed against her skin.

"Son, calm down, we are not going to hurt you," declared the suited man.

"Hurt me? You frikkin tortured me! You tried to kill me!" accused Drake.

The man gave an incredulous, almost friendly smile.

"Correction; we did kill you. Yet here you are," he exclaimed, arms still raised. The male doctor still wailed and writhed on the floor, his gown soaked in red. Drake knew he was right. He did die, but at the same time, he didn't. How was he still alive? He felt his body shut down. You don't come back kicking and fighting from that.

"What is going on? How am I still alive?" Drake asked, it was a demand more than a question.

"Drake, I know you're-"the man began.

"No more of your cryptic bullshit! Tell me what the hell am I!" screamed Drake as he pressed the blade more tightly to the doctors throat, who shrieked and began to sob.

The suited man, visibly cautious of Drakes aggression, took a small step forward.

"Drake, if you would just let me explain, it seems that you are more special than previously thought. There is a lot going on in the world right now, and it is all in some way related to you. You're past is what has lead you to develop some… extraordinary talents. Talents not afforded to everyone who was in the same situation as you," explained the man, trying to calm Drake down.

Drake glared at him with laser-like intensity. He kept the knife where it was, but he was clearly a little calmer, but still ready to kill the woman.

"Put down the knife, Drake. Let the woman go and we can sort this out in a peaceful and pain-free manner," said the man, smiling his warm smile at Drake.

"Why should I trust you? Why would you give me answers now when you just had me killed?" snarled Drake.

"Because, it seems now, you are much more useful to us than previously thought. No more operating tables Drake, no more pain. I just want to have a chat with you and shed some light on your current situation. Just a chat, Drake," he explained.

Drake remained silent for a few moments. He considered his options. He was backed into a corner. He had no way out except the man who had put him here. All he had was this woman to bargain with, a woman who had caused him so much excruciating pain. He wasn't sure of whom he was at all, but he was sure of one thing. He wanted to kill this woman more than anything else in the world. A primal, fierce hate filled him, one that felt familiar yet foreign at the same time. The male doctor still screeched like an agonised pig on the floor, and a part of Drake revelled in it, it revelled in the torment of a man who had wounded him. But he wanted answers, and it seemed that, if they tried anything, Drake was extraordinarily hard to kill. He came to a decision.

Drake eased off and dropped the knife, staring at the injured doctor as his hostage fell to the floor, sobbing. A guard took her and brought her away, keeping a safe distance from Drake, and two other guards scooped up the screaming man whom Drake had stabbed and took him away. Drake stared at the floor as the suited man straightened up and stared at him.

Drake glared back, burning holes into the man's soul with those blue eyes. The man smiled again, which was beginning to annoy Drake, and held out his hand.

"Come, let's get you some proper clothes and a drink, and I'll fill you in on why you are as infamous as you are, though I think it is now apparent," he said.

Drake simply stared at him for a few long moments, until he relented to his offer. A cup of water would sure be nice.

**Hey guys! So this is my first fanfic on this site, and I am delighted to post the first two chapters on my story. I would have put this at the end of chapter 1 buuut I forgot. XD. So anyway, obviously Drake Merwin belongs to Michael Grant and other characters of his belong to him as well, which may appear later on. ;). Suit guy is my own character and any others present so far. Please rate and review and constructive criticism is very much welcomed as long as it is, well, constructive. :P. Hope you enjoy! More coming soon!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! Thank you so, so much for the reviews on the last chapter! Keep them coming! Haha :D. So this chapter is more explanatory than anything, and sorry if it is a bit boring, but it will clear some things up, and it is the beginning of Drakes new journey, so to speak! :D. Hope you enjoy this one, and once again, please R&amp;R! :)**

Drake sat on a leather couch in an office. The office had a wide window spanning the far wall, which displayed the building he was in clearly. It was a fortress, a building that looked like it was capable of withholding an apocalypse. He was high up in a steel and glass tower. The walls of the fort were made of concrete and shaped in strange jagged manners, like a colossal modern art piece. Office buildings, labs and dozens of helipads were scattered through the misshapen complex. On the outside were the outskirts of a city, it looked familiar. New York City maybe? No, too much greenery, Washington DC, he remembered. It was strange how simple notions were familiar to him, words, places and simple memories; however more emotional and complicated memories were harder to process. From what he could remember, he was almost thankful for that.

The man in the white suit poured both of them glasses of water. The sound of it made Drake's mouth salivate. He only now realized how thirsty he was, and he could not form words to describe it. The man smiled as he handed him a glass and took a seat on a couch opposite Drake. He emptied the glass within a few seconds. The relief of hydration washing over him like a lapping wave. He took a long, satisfied breath after he finished the glass, savoring the moment.

The man let out an incredulous laugh.

"Bloody hell, you drink like a fish!" he laughed.

Drake felt like replying with a comment about how being tortured and dying can make a guy thirsty, but he didn't have the energy to argue just yet.

"Do you like the building? It was completed just a month after The FAYZ came down. We have been in operation since-"He began.

"Cut the crap," warned Drake, "You said you know who I am, I think that takes priority over the architecture," said Drake in a low voice. The intensity was clear, he wanted answers.

The man, slightly taken back, stopped and settled down in his seat. He kept his gentle demeanor, but was now serious.

"Right, well firstly, my name is Anthony Caldera, I am in charge of the FACE initiative," he began.

"The FACE initiative?" Drake asked as he furrowed his brow.

"FAYZ Asset Containment Enterprise," he explained with a trademark smile.

Drake was only more confused.

"FAYZ, what is that? It's familiar, but I can't-" he rubbed his temples, his memory desperately trying to pin a label on the word.

"Well, simply put, it was a scientific phenomenon. An area of California isolated within a large dome of energy that stretched for miles in each direction, an area called Perdido Beach," explained the man.

Perdido Beach, the name was like a shock to his brain. He remembered the name, it was something pivotal to him, something he had thought of when he woke up on the beach. It was home.

"Within the ball of energy, strange things happened. Every person over the age of fifteen was instantly teleported outside the FAYZ upon its creation. Some people left inside started developing… strange powers, so to speak. This was believed to be due to a virus of extra-terrestrial origin that was believed to have landed there a few years prior to the event," he continued. Drake stopped him.

"Wait, what? A virus of extra-t-… Are you talking about an alien virus?" asked Drake, an incredulous look on his face.

"Yes, a virus designed to create life, but gained consciousness upon its first contact with organic matter. Many people developed powers and much of the local wildlife that was trapped mutated. In point of fact, while the virus caused these mutations, it was a child who had developed extraordinary powers that created The FAYZ. The residents of the FAYZ came to call the entity that was once the virus The Gaiaphage,"

Drake held his head suddenly. The name was like a needle had poked into his brain. Painful memories played out again, visions of a green, shape shifting monster, and a girl who radiated death.

Caldera went to get up as Drake clutched his head, visibly worried, but Drake held out his remaining hand to stop him. Within a few seconds, the pain subsided. Drake opened his eyes again to see Anthony staring at him worryingly.

"Are you OK, Drake?" he asked. Drake didn't answer the question. He was anything but OK.

"Where do I fit into all of this?" he asked, his patience now wearing very thin.

"Well," Caldera began, taking pause for what was to come, "you were, you might say, one of the most feared people of the FAYZ, and the Gaiaphage's personal soldier," he explained, and handed Drake a folder than had been lying on the glass table between them.

Drake was taken back. His jaw dropped slightly, but words failed to come. He hesitantly took the file and opened it. There was a picture of him from a few years back, when he was about thirteen he guessed. He wasn't sure if it was a passport photo or a mugshot. The latter fit the bill better. He saw sadism in his face. He was smiling, giving the camera a malicious death stare, like a great white eyeing a sea lion. Even at that young age, he could see there was evil in his eyes. He turned the page, and it contained a graphic and detailed account of Drakes "life" in the FAYZ. His heartbeat faltered as he read, he was excreting a cold sweat. Details of murders, acts of sadism, skinning's, torture, even reports of supposed cannibalism. It was now becoming clear why his name was so infamous. This was him, this was him before he woke up on that beach. He was a monster. He now knew that those fragmented, horrific memories were his. He read about how he whipped the skin off of people with the long tentacle that was once his right arm, he read about how he served that awful alien monstrosity without pause and without question, and he remembered the feelings he felt when he committed the atrocious acts. He felt happy. No, he felt delighted. He was in pure bliss when he caused suffering.

Now, it disgusted him. He felt sick, sick to the core of his damned soul. He was no longer human. He was a regenerating, whip-handed monster.

And he was dead. A report filed stated that he had lost his power and fallen to pieces, and his head was burned. The devil of Perdido beach, as he was now known as, was dead.

Yet here he still was.

Drake put down the file, staring at the glass table. Caldera looked at the pitiful teenager. He looked drained, utterly defeated. This was not the Drake Merwin he had heard and read so much about. This was not the monster he had heard the survivors of the FAYZ talk fearfully about. But yet it was, he was here, he still had his regeneration powers, and he had seen the damage he could do when he was angry. Even if it wasn't the old Drake Merwin, there was definitely a part of him left.

"How am I still alive?" asked Drake, his voice croaky and eyes beginning to water. Caldera paused for a moment before answering.

"As you may have read, you were cut up into pieces and separated throughout the FAYZ by one of the more dangerous mutants, Brianna "The Breeze". Your head was placed on another body by a manifestation of the Gaiaphage, and you died on that body. However, we believe that at least on piece of you that was dumped in the sea could have regenerated into a full body before the FAYZ went down. No one knew that you could be capable of such regrowth," explained Caldera.

Drake tried to take in what he was saying.

"So why can't I remember anything?" he asked wiping his eyes.

"Well, we believe that perhaps your mind didn't fully regenerate before everyone lost their powers. Also, re-growing a body part or a limb is one thing, but re-growing a mind is, well, very complicated in a million different ways. Your memories are made up of electrical signals, your personality is made up of these memories and hormones your mind conditions itself to, such as rage or anger hormones. A developed and experienced brain is something that can't just be regrown; you cannot artificially replicate a personality,"

Drake looked somberly up at Caldera.

"But I am still that person," he solemnly stated. Caldera gave him a pitiful look.

"Technically yes, but –"he began.

"Then I don't want to live," declared Drake, eyes blank.

"I don't want to be that person. If there is some way to do it, then kill me. I can't live as that person," he finished. He was staring blankly out the window, eyes welling up.

Caldera was taken back once again.

"Drake, you can't do that. Even if we could do that, you are the first person who has been able to retain his powers after the FAYZ ended. We tested your blood for traces of any clue to your regeneration and found nothing, yet you can still do it. The wounds inflicted upon you by the doctors', there isn't even a trace of them only an hour later! You are so vital, you could help millions!" he pleaded.

"Help? No, I never helped anyone, I killed them!" anger returning in his voice.

"I tortured and maimed and killed people for fun, I aided a monster in its mission to kill every single kid in that damned place! How can I help anyone?"

"You could be the key to saving millions from injuries, diseases, you could end suffering for good!" Caldera stated, sincerity in his face and voice becoming clearer and clearer.

Drake took a few moments to make his reply. Was there such a thing as redemption? Could he possibly redeem himself for what he has done? Did he deserve redemption? Maybe, just maybe, he could do some good for this world. Maybe he could make up for what his old self had done. But one thing kept nagging him. He turned his gaze to Caldera, his eyes narrowing.

"I doubt you would be giving me ice cool water and a leather couch if you just wanted to study me," an accusing and menacing tone edging into his voice.

Caldera stood up and walked over to the window after a brief pause. He gazed out at the base and the city.

"When the FAYZ was created, the whole world had its eyes on Perdido Beach." He began, "For four years we tried to breach that bubble. No one could do it. We all watched helplessly as that clouded mystery stood there, immovable and impregnable. Then it all came down," he turned to Drake.

"All eyes were once again on Perdido Beach, some of them were greedy eyes. The scientific potential of The FAYZ was unparalleled. Within a month of its collapse, foreign organisations were secretly sweeping the area and attempting to speak with survivors of the FAYZ, organisations with very sinister agendas," explained Caldera. Drake smirked mockingly.

"Because I am sure you're organisation focuses on moral boundaries," he leered as recent memories of the operating table flashed through his mind.

"We do what we have to, Drake," said Caldera defensively.

"We are trying to stop bad people from using the discoveries of the FAYZ for destructive purposes. However, humanitarian work and gathering evidence only gets us so far. We can't stop everything falling into the wrong hands. That is when we must use more drastic measures," he explained. Drake was growing impatient.

"What are you asking me to do, Caldera?" he asked, a no-nonsense tone in his voice warning Caldera to be straight with him.

"You have shown me you can still fight," he began, walking over to Drake, "And you seem to still get a kick out of the heat of battle, am I right? I am asking you, if I provided you with the right training and the right tools at your disposal, would you be willing to help us get at the people who wish to use the powers that resided in the FAYZ to commit acts of terror similar to what your old self did, only on a much larger scale," he asked Drake, leaning on the arm of Drakes couch.

Drake paused. He was shocked by what he was being asked.

"Are you asking me to be a soldier?" he asked incredulously, his eyes wide in shock.

"An immortal soldier, Drake! A soldier of virtue who cannot be killed, who defended the people of the world!" stated Caldera, balling his fist and smiling, being as dramatic as he possibly could.

Drake Merwin thought to himself. Could he really help people? Could the Devil of Perdido Beach actually do the world good? It seemed like a nice notion. Perhaps there was a small chance he could find peace in this. And he would still get to fight. As much as he didn't want to believe it, while he felt sick at the horrible things his past self had done, he still had a desire to fight, a desire to be in the heat of combat… and a desire to give what was coming to those who deserved it.

This was his way out, he realized. Perhaps there was a way out other than his own demise. He nodded his head. Caldera punched the air and cheered. Drake gave his a disapproving look.

"Yes! This is the right thing to do Drake. I know it might not seem like it yet, but you can do wonders for this world. You could be the very first superhero!" Caldera excitedly declared. Drake winced at that last sentence. He wanted to redeem himself; the idea of being called a superhero made him just as sick as the idea of who he once was.

"Yeah that's all well and good Caldera in writing, but I don't think that a teenager with one arm is going to be much use in a war zone," he skeptically declared. Caldera smiled widely.

"Don't worry, Drake. The training and resources I will provide you with will turn you from a fighter into a warrior!" he exclaimed clapping his hands once for emphasis. He then held up his finger and gave a wink.

"And I think I have an idea in mind for that arm of yours."

**So there it is! Finnito! Nah just kidding, this is only the bare start! Hehe :P. So now Drake is about to start a new life, but it may prove even more dangerous than his life in The FAYZ! Redemption is never easily won! But he may have help coming, from an old "friend" of sorts. ;). Stay tuned for more and R&amp;R please! :D**


	4. Chapter 4

**So here we have it guys! Chapter 4! Thank you so much once again for the reviews, I am so glad people are enjoying this! :D. So here we have a chapter that will introduce a new major character, and also have a bit more action in it! Please R&amp;R if you want! Much appreciated! :D**

**Chapter 4**

Drake had a hot meal that evening, a proper one. Steak, vegetables and a cool drink. It was the first dinner he remembered having in a very long time. Really, he only cared about the steak. He wolfed it down his gullet within a minute, and then went on to have a second helping of it. Something about meat really appeased him and he ate like a hungry hyena. After he was finished, he savored the lingering taste of the cow in his mouth.

'Carnivore by nature,' he thought to himself, 'Must be why they had accused you of trying more "exotic" meats in the FAYZ,"

He shook off the thought; he had enough depressing guilt pushing down on him at the moment without adding possible cannibalism to the list.

Later on he was escorted to his room by two armed guards. The room was a cube, with grey concrete walls and no windows. It had a bed and a bathroom with a working shower. It suited Drake absolutely fine. He took a long shower, finally remembering the sensation of running water flowing down his back, accumulated dirt disappearing down the drainage hole. The last flecks of dead skin were washed off of the stump that used to be his right arm and drifted away. The bed wasn't exactly comfortable, but Drake didn't care; he did not sleep a wink that night anyway. As he stared at the ceiling he thought over the words that Caldera had said to him, about being "a soldier of virtue" and a "superhero" and cringed inwardly. He did not want to be a hero, he just wanted to try and make up for the damage he had done. He did not want the rest of the world to know that the Devil of Perdido Beach was still alive, let alone about to be trained for combat.

But as he lay there, something felt off about his missing arm. He had heard that sometimes amputees felt as if the limb they had lost was still there. That was what he was feeling. Only he didn't feel like his arm was there. The feeling of something wrapping around his torso, like a python, was present, as if his right arm was long and prehensile. Just like a whip.

The thought disturbed him, the thought of that malicious weapon that he had used to cause so much pain and death. Even more disturbing was the fact that it was what had first tied him to that alien monster, The Gaiaphage.

But as he lay there gazing up at the ceiling, he couldn't help but feel a strange comforting sensation as he imagined the whip coiling around him. It was horrible, the things he had used that whip to do, he knew that… but at the same time, it felt like it was a part of him, a part that could never truly go away.

He wondered what else of the old Drake remained, and would it all ever truly go away.

In the morning, a soldier named Bronson, a bear of a man, but with an almost infant like face, knocked on his door and informed Drake that his training would begin after breakfast. Drake dressed in a black long sleeve T-shirt and jeans that were provided. He tucked the shirts right sleeve in; it wasn't as if he needed it. After a quick breakfast of some bread and bacon, Bronson escorted Drake down a busy corridor which was bustling with all sorts of activity. Scientists, engineers, technicians and soldiers were all coming to and fro different stations all around the facility, carrying documents, lab equipment and weapons. Drake saw some of them give him weary stares. He was sure they all knew of his survival by now. None seemed too shocked to see him alive, just worried.

Two minutes later, Drake was in an elevator descending to the bottom floors of the complex, flanked by two guards, Bronson and another soldier. Drake guessed they were more of a prison guard than an escort. He remained silent as they went down and down further, sighing once, just to give the dead space another sound other than the whirring of the elevator. He began to speculate that his next few weeks might be rather boring and insufferable, being under lock and key the whole time and taking boring trips like this.

'Means to an end, Drake," he thought to himself. Then the elevator doors pinged open.

As the doors subsided, it took Drake a couple of seconds to register what now lay in front of him. When he did, his jaw dropped and his eyes widened. Before him now was the biggest training center he had ever seen, a massive room the size of a football stadium. The two guards led him down a small flight of stairs and into the immense cavern of concrete and steel. All around him there were soldiers training on obstacle courses, shooting ranges, fitness machines and a myriad of other contraptions Drake could not even fathom as to what their purpose was. Floodlights illuminated the different areas, and the sound of gunfire echoed throughout the cavern from the shooting ranges.

Caldera was speaking with what looked like twelve candidates in training at the center of the room. He was wearing a blue polo shirt and his white trousers and shoes. When he saw Drake and the guards approaching he smiled and finished up his conversation with the trainees and turned to Drake. He was still getting annoyed by that smile. He felt stupid, almost crazy, for putting himself up to this. After all, this man just had him killed yesterday. He didn't trust Caldera one bit, but he was desperate. He had to redeem himself, for him and the people he hurt. He quickly wondered what the old Drake would think of his future self, wanting to help people instead of maiming and killing them.

"Well, you're still up to the task then, that's great!" said Caldera cheerfully.

"Yeah, guess I am," said Drake. He looked all around him.

"You guys take yourselves pretty seriously, don't you?" he questioned jokingly as he scanned the massive space.

"We are dealing with some of the most potentially dangerous powers on earth, Drake. Not to mention the existence of alien life out there somewhere," explained Caldera. He spread his arms, gesturing the colossal room. "This is just one example of the measures that the people here at FACE will undertake to ensure that we are ready to fight the worst," he dramatically declared.

"Yeah sure, so when do I start?" asked Drake, his impatience of Caldera's theatricality clear now.

"In about three seconds," said Caldera as he gestured to something behind Drake, "Meet your training instructor,"

Drake turned around to see a young man, probably in his late twenties or early thirties, walk up to him and Anthony. He had a handsome face, spiked brown hair and brown stubble. His face reminded Drake of a wolf. He stopped in front of Drake, flanked by four soldiers, two at either side of him. They all displayed power and strength, and a little bit of arrogance thrown into the mix. The training instructor eyed Drake with a cold stare. He was fit as a fiddle, and looked like he could lash out at any moment and leave you no time to react.

"Drake, this is Niall Cross, he's our head instructor and also the head of field operations conducted by FACE," explained Caldera. Drake extended his remaining hand for a shake.

"Nice to meet you, Niall," said Drake with a smile. Cross didn't move, keeping his cold stare on Drake.

"You will call me Captain or Sir, Mr Merwin," he said callously. "I'm in charge of training you to be combat ready, and I will also be your team leader if you do actually make it to the field," he explained.

Drake held his stance for a moment, slightly taken back by the man's arrogance. He let his hand drop and decided that he and Cross here were not going to get along. He returned Cross's cold stare; only he added a slight smirk of rebellion. Cross showed no sign of the slight shock he felt of finally meeting The Devil of Perdido Beach, only for The Devil himself to offer him a handshake. He didn't deserve even the slightest courtesy back, thought Cross. Caldera broke the awkward silence that followed.

"Well I think we shouldn't take any more time with introductions. I think we should start your training right away!" Caldera said as he patted Drakes shoulder.

"With all due respect, Mr Caldera, I don't think a one armed kid will be of much use to the team, regeneration or not," explained Cross. "Now I know you have your engineers working on a solution to his arm, but then there is his state of muscle mass, or lack there-of. And his mental state, based on filed reports, I would… strongly recommend we reconsider this decision," he said, earning a few mocking smiles from the men behind him. He kept his poker face.

Caldera faltered for a moment, mouth open. Drake however, only let his smirk grow a little wider, slightly baring a canine. The man was insulting him, berating him, and while he knew that his past actions had earned him this treatment, this group of "men" displayed a pure general arrogance. Drake liked this, his fight was now returning. His lust for conflict was still very much there, and now he had a whole group of pig-headed men to check up on his confrontation skills. Caldera was about to say something when Drake got to it first.

"With all due respect, "Sir", why don't you prove that I'm unsuitable for training, rather than just blabbing about it," he leered, staring Cross directly in the eyes.

One of his men stepped up, shoulders tensed in a threatening (and quite pitiful, Drake thought) display.

"What did you say, you little prick?" he growled.

"OK, gentlemen, let's just start this again and-"Caldera began, trying to diffuse the situation.

"I said prove I'm unsuitable, big guy. If I'm just a one armed loony then prove it, try hitting me," Drake dared.

The five men, including Cross, were now riled up, although Cross kept his cool better than the others. Caldera stared at Drake incredulously, mouth agape. Drake turned to him and smiled.

"Come on, give the dogs a bone. See if their bite is worse than their bark,"

Five minutes later, Drake found himself standing on a sparring mat. The man who had called him a "prick" stepped onto the mat, cracking his knuckles. Drake was a tall teenager, but this man was massive, and well-muscled. Drake just chuckled silently to himself.

'Big bald bastard,' Drake thought to himself.

"Alright you little turd, time to teach you some manners!" he growled.

"Geez, teach me some manners? Could that big forehead of yours not think of a better threat than that?" jeered Drake. The man chuckled with suppressed anger and advanced on Drake.

"I'm going to wipe that-"he began. He did not stay conscious long enough to finish the statement.

As he came within punching range, Drake reacted as quickly as a cobra. He kicked out and caught the man's knee. With a grunt, the soldier's knee collapsed beneath him. As he went down, Drake rewarded him with a ferociously quick and powerful head-butt to the nose. The man's head snapped back and he fell onto the mat, out cold. This all happened within a second.

The other three grunts stared wide-eyed and slack-jawed at both their comrade and Drake. Cross's expression changed from surly to shock too, although his was less noticeable. The knowledge on how to fight was all coming back to him, muscle memory hidden away in his scattered brain was now returning, and it was back with a vengeance.

"Waiter, main course please?" growled Drake, smiling ferociously at the remaining three soldiers.

Two of them came at him this time, a blonde guy who was a hulking mass, and a smaller black haired guy who was lither. The blonde came at him with a high punch, while the black-haired one came at him with a low punch just behind the other. It was a well-coordinated attack, meant to stop him from dodging high or low, but within a millisecond Drake found a fault in their manoeuvre. He didn't need to dodge it.

As the first punch was thrown, Drake turned his shoulder to the fist and pushed forward. The blow struck him, but Drake's move made the man's elbow snap back and connect with the other soldier's nose, sending him reeling with a fresh gush of blood. The blonde man roared and tried to swing around and make another strike, but Drake was much faster than the lumbering beast. He rounded on him, recovering from the blow that hit his right shoulder and swung at the soldier, connecting with his jaw. The blow was accurate and powerful and had the desired effect. The man went tumbling. He went to launch himself back up off the mat, visibly disorientated, but he was met with Drakes black boot, which hit him right in the face. Drake's fists were one thing, but his legs were pile drivers that could give serious blows. The man was unconscious before he kissed the floor again.

Drake laughed, not at the attempt these "trained" men were making, but at how much fun he was having. He was having an absolute ball.

The black haired man was back up again and charging, snarling like a wild animal through his mask of blood. Drake dug his feet into the floor, appearing to be taking a bracing position… right before he leapt clean into the air, legs outstretched in front of him. Both of his boots connected with the man's chin. Teeth splintered and cracked, his head shot back, and he did a full flip in mid-air before landing face-first onto the mat.

As Drake sprung to his feet, the last remaining soldier rushed in and threw a punch that connected with the side of Drake's head. The blow was powerful, Drake stumbled but stayed upright, blinking rapidly and cursing as he regained focus. The man threw three more punches, all three connected. One hit Drake right on the nose, one hit him on the cheek and then the last, a right hook, hit him in the stomach, winding him. Drake doubled over, a wheeze of escaping air leaving his mouth. Cross observed with secret satisfaction, but he did not smile.

The man sneered and laughed at Drake as he tried to get back to his feet. Drake wheezed something inaudible as he rose.

"What was that, little guy?" the soldier mocked. Drake kept his head down.

"I said smell my forehead would you? I think it needs a wash," he said. For a brief millisecond, the soldier thought that Drake was still crazy. That was until he realised how close he had gotten to Drake in order to hear him. He figured that part out a second too late.

Drake suddenly grabbed the back of the man's head and pulled it towards him as he gave the guy a head-butt that connected with the soldier's nose. His head snapped back and he howled, but Drake went in for another and head-butt him again, drawing blood from his own forehead, but leaving the soldier worse off. As the man clutched his nose, Drake drove a kick with as much power as he could muster into the man's crotch. His wail turned into a whine as his eyes bulged and his breath escaped. Drake then finished it off with an uppercut straight to the chin, flipping the man onto his back, unconscious and down for the count.

Four trained soldiers against a one armed teenager. The whole training room stared in shock, dozens of faces staring with 'o' shaped mouths at Drake. Caldera smirked as he looked on. Cross simply kept his cold stare on the boy. Drake panted and looked around, blood dripping down his forehead and his face. He wiped the blood and smeared it across his head.

"There, much cleaner now," he chuckled with his shark smile on display.

"Training has officially begun then!" Caldera announced with barely contained glee.

Cross eyed him for a moment, then spoke up:

"Get them cleaned up. Everyone else, back to your training!"" he said as he gave Drake a final stare before heading off.

Drake looked down at the four men being carried off to the med-bay, his forehead already beginning to mend itself cell by cell.

"Hope you train me better than you did them, asshole," he whispered to himself as he smirked.

**So there is another one down! Just like those silly soldiers! Hehe :P. Next chapter coming soon, and will reintroduce something that Drake once held very close to him. ;). Well, as close as anything can get to an ex psychopath! Of course the question of whether his malicious past is truly behind him or not will become harder to answer in the coming chapters. It's time to make Drake a warrior! Stay tuned for more, and as always, R&amp;R on what you like and what you think I should do better! :D**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey guys! So here we have it! Another Chapter! Not much to say really, only thanks form your support so far! :D. So, I promised an old "friend" would be returning, see what I mean down below. Drake will sure be happy to see him. ;). Hope you all enjoy it! :D UPDATE: Just had to delete and re-uplead to correct spelling and grammar errors. :P**

**Chapter 5**

And so, for the next two weeks, Drake slept a lot better. Not because of any sort of peace of mind, but for sheer exhaustion. Every day he was up at 7 am, had a quick breakfast, went down to the training center and was mercilessly put to the test for the entire day, all until 7 in the evening.

The first week was the toughest. Cross set him off on obstacle course to start off with. Drake was pretty sure that the path to hell was easier than the infernal courses. As he leaped over jumps and hurdles, massive pillars of metal would shoot up from the floor, knocking him high as if he had stepped on a landmine. Going up was the part Drake was fine with; it was hitting the floor again that hurt. But time and time again he got back up and restarted the course.

His missing arm proved to be a real handicap here. Rungs from which he had to hold onto to cross gaping chasms that had ten foot drops onto the hard floor, proved to be nearly impossible for him to overcome. He hit the hard floor a tenth time with a jarring thud. He snarled and cursed as loud as he could as the pain coursed through him, though he knew any injuries sustained would be gone within a minute. He lay there for a second, gazing at the rungs far above him.

"Get your ass moving, Merwin! Again!" shouted Cross who observed from the start of the course.

Drake got to his feet, seething inside at both himself and Cross. When he questioned Caldera about a replacement for his arm, the man replied with his stupid smile and said:

"I'm taking care of it buddy, don't you worry,"

But Drake did worry about it. Without another arm, he would not be much use in the heat of battle. Hell, he wouldn't even be able to complete the obstacle course without it!

They had left the obstacle course behind after three days, seeing as it was no use having a one-armed guy failing continuously at it. Drake had wanted to move on to firearms training, gazing at the racks of rifles and handguns that were over by the various shooting galleries. Cross had said he didn't want an untrained person handling the weapons in a room full of cadets, let alone a potential psychopath. The man's hostile attitude was growing more and more irritating as the days went on.

Drake had begun exercising every part of his body. He was on treadmills for what seemed like hours at a time, only stopping when he was on the brink of passing out. He punched and kicked test dummies for ages at a time. During the first week, he managed to only barely mark the toughened carbon fiber mannequins. They were designed to resist only the strongest of punishment. Drake had snarled and spat mas he ferociously assaulted the dummies, giving it his all.

The second week came, and Cross arrived at the training center early Sunday morning to find Drake waiting for him. The boy was wearing a sweat shirt and a tracksuit, and looked ready for another week. Cross stared at the boy and shook his head. He did not see any way this was going to work. He was a boy with a past steeped in blood; innocent blood. He had woken up on a beach barely a week ago and his brain was a jigsaw puzzle after being thrown into a blender. Sure, he could regenerate any injury it seemed, even a broken arm from punching a mannequin in the wrong way too hard had healed up under a minute, and he fought with a ferocity and determination Cross had never seen before, but he was unreliable, handicapped and potentially a danger to his team.

"Alright, Sir, let's get at it shall we," said Drake, giving a determined smile. He looked like a hungry shark whenever he did that.

However, this week proved to be very different from the week before. Cross put Drake on the treadmills first, hoping that either the boy maybe could go for at least an hour at a moderate speed, or just fall over and give up. Two hours later, a crowd of twenty people were standing around the treadmill, watching in confusion, shock and awe as Drake ran full pelt at a ridiculously high speed. He was sweating, spitting and panting, but he was doing it none the less, he was breaking the training centre's running record on his second week. Cross saw the look in Drakes face as he stared on in disbelief; it was a look of pure, unbridled determination as the boy motored on.

He let Drake at the dummies next. Drake instantly went in and ferociously punched with his fist and gave violent kicks. As he pummeled the mannequin, Cross heard the distinctive faint cracks of carbon fibre beginning to split. He couldn't believe it. After a failed first week of training, Drake was now exceeding the expectations of someone in their 8th week. This wasn't physically possible, no-one can go from technically not even qualifying as a trainee to becoming a record breaker from one week to the next. It must have been a trick, something, anything, but it just wasn't humanly possible.

But Drake was definitely not completely human.

Caldera strolled up beside Cross, a smug and nonchalant attitude radiating from him as he saw the bewildered look on Cross's face. He stopped beside him and spoke quietly to him:

"Amazing, isn't it?" he began, "We figured this might happen. You know how muscle building works, right? You work out, it slightly damages you muscles and then your body repairs the damage, only it turns out slightly stronger than before. Well, his regenerative abilities work in the same way, but much more rapid and much more intensively. His muscles condition themselves to make sure that they don't get damaged by the same thing again, which is in this case, physical exertion. Basically, his body isn't letting itself be hurt again by your training, instead, it's mastering it," he explained, adding a slight touch of venom to the last sentence.

Cross glared at Caldera for a second, before glancing over at the members of his own team. They still had bandages over their heads and noses from last week's fight with Drake. He had humiliated him, beaten his team up and was now making his training course look like a walk in the park. But it wasn't that that gave him his hatred from Drake. It made him angry, sure enough. But his hatred for the boy stemmed from something much deeper and older. Something he had to keep hidden, no matter how much it burned him.

'Keep it bottled in Cross," he willed himself, "At least for the moment,"

He finished that last thought just as Drake smashed open the dummies head with a final, ferocious punch to its temple. As pieces of the head hit the floor, Drake snarled and grabbed the jagged, exposed neck of the dummy and pulled hard. The entire left side of the dummies body cracked and broke off, crashing to the floor in a shower of grey shards and dust. In his frenzy, Drake found himself stamping down hard on the pieces of the dummy, crushing whatever was left of it into the floor under his feet. He slowly calmed down as the mannequin's remains turned to nothing more than tiny fragments of what it used to be. He panted and looked directly at Cross and Caldera. They could see it in his eyes, it was clear and very frightening, but promising; part of the old Drake had resurfaced, the part that was nothing but pure boiling rage and anger.

In the next week, Drake had passed all of the challenges thrown at him by Cross, all except that damned obstacle course. Caldera had now insisted that they give him a shot at using firearms, to which Cross had at first strongly objected, but eventually relented to Caldera. He was, after-all, his boss.

Drake was beside himself as a soldier opened up the gun cabinet for him. He couldn't help it; there was just something about guns that got him excited more than anything else, even though he knew what their horrible purpose was. He smiled broadly and chuckled slightly as Cross went to pick up a handgun, a glock.

'Easy, Drake!' he thought to himself, 'You can't use this enthusiasm too likely. No killing unless you have to,'

Cross strolled over to him, glock in hand. He stood in front of Drake, giving him his cold wolf-like stare. For a moment, it looked as if he might use the handgun on Drake. He then handed it to Drake, a warning look on his face. Drake needed no explanation as to what it meant. 'Try anything, and I don't care if you can heal yourself, I'll drop you and kill you, no matter how I have to do it,'

Drake took position at the shooting gallery; five mannequin heads placed about thirty feet in front of him in a row. Caldera, Cross and a number of guards, trainees and scientists watched from a safe distance back. Cross had his right hand resting on his holstered pistol. The guards held their machine guns at the ready.

Drake eyed the dummies. Muscle memory was starting to return as he felt the cold steel in his left hand. Pistol still down at his side, he clicked the safety switch to off. Suddenly, something nagged at him. A new, faint desire entered his brain, begging him, enticing him… to turn around and put as many bullets in Cross and Caldera as the clip could hold.

'No! You are not that Drake! Don't let yourself become him again! Redemption, Drake, that is what you're after, not bloodshed,' he silently willed himself.

But the urge was still there. It was a hunger, and it threatened to overtake him. He shook his head and focused on the mannequins. Cross noticed this, his grip on the pistol tightened. He almost wanted Drake to do it, to give him an excuse. Caldera noticed to.

"Are you OK, Mr Merwin?" he asked, the worry in his voice not too well hidden.

"I'm fine," answered Drake, "Just getting my focus,"

The five dummy heads were all his vision and his mind focused on. They were his targets. In his mind, they were the doctors, his torturers. They were the Gaiaphage, five incarnations of a monster he had to kill. 'They are my enemy,' he willed himself. 'They are my tormentors; they are the ones I kill. They are bad people,' he kept thinking, focusing on the plain, plastic faces.

'They are my Sam Temple,'

All of a sudden, everything froze. That name, it meant something to him, a memory had risen up to reveal itself again. The memory of the name came with feelings of pain and rage. A faint silhouette of a boy with a green light shooting from his palms, a burning light, formed in his brain. A green light, so similar in so many ways, to the green light of that alien monster.

He didn't know who he was, whether he was a good person or a bad person. But the pain of the burning light came back to him; it's horrid, scorching memory. All he knew at that second was one thing, Sam temple was his enemy, he was the mannequins. They were Sam Temple.

With a move as quick as lighting, Drake raised the glock and fired. Five shots rang out within a second, and five dummy heads shattered as lead projectiles split them open like melons. But he did not stop. He fired again and again, creating holes in the concrete a few feet behind the remains of the heads. He fired and fired, like a blaze that was out of control.

'Kill Sam Temple!' his mind screamed.

'Kill Sam Temple! Kill Sam Temple,'

'Kill him!'

'Kill him!'

'KILL HIM!'

The gun clicked empty over and over as Drake kept pulling the trigger.

He stopped eventually, and let his arm drop to his side, smoking gun still in hand. He panted as he stared blankly with his cold blue eye. The whole crowd behind him was stunned; it wasn't exactly an easy shot that he had just achieved. The cold efficiency he had showed while firing, mixed with a silent rage, had left them mouth agape and speechless. Caldera was the first to react. He clapped his hands and laughed.

"My dear boy," he said as he ran up to Drake, "that was exceptional! Might need to work on your eyesight, I think you must have been seeing double there or something, but you hit those heads without missing a single round!" he exclaimed, positively delighted.

He waved for the crowd to disband, all except for Cross. Caldera, hand on Drake's shoulder, led him down off the shooting range.

"Well, you have proved you can shoot just as well as anyone here, so I think you're training is nearly complete already!" he laughed as he said the last word, his smile nearly reaching his ears. Cross cut in:

"Hold on sir. Sharpshooter or not, freak or not, he showed a severe lack of control here!" he declared angrily, switching gazes between Caldera and Drake, who was still staring blankly into space.

"Yes, well, that's what we have you here for Cross, to control your team members, right. You can control a teenager, can't you?" he winked at Cross as he said the last part. Cross's face flared red.

"Besides that, he is till handicapped. I can't have a one armed boy on my team!" he stated.

"Well, technically a one armed warrior now. And I am about to remove the one armed part,"

Drake looked to Caldera as he said the last part. A faint smile appeared on the corner of his lip.

"It's finished? You have made me a new arm?" he asked, a faint hint of joy in his voice.

"Better than that, my dear boy. Much better!" he beckoned a pair of guards and a scientist over. They were rolling a trolley which had a large, black military case on it. They pulled up in front of the three men. The two guards slipped keys into separate lock systems on the case and turned them. With a click, the case was unlocked. They then stepped to the side of the case, which was just about over a meter long, and opened it. It hissed as it opened up wide, revealing its cargo. Drake's breath halted. He finally laid eyes on his new arm.

Inside the case was a mechanical appendage. A metal shell about the length of a forearm stemmed from an armored shoulder plate. It looked like a cylindrical cage, gaps between bars of metal revealing the mechanics inside the device. Drake was confused, until one of the men opened the narrow side of the case. A whirring followed by a click sounded from the strange device, and from the end of the forearm part, a long spool of segmented metal rolled out about 6 feet over the edge of the trolley and onto the floor. It looked like a metal spinal cord, segmented and narrowing all the way to its tip which ended on a sharp tip. He instantly recognized it now. A memory came back, flooding into his mind like an oil spill. A memory of his past self, a memory of his right arm, if you could call it that.

It was the unmistakable design of a mechanical whip hand.

Drake stared at it for a lengthy time, different emotions fighting for control over his next move. Should he be overjoyed or enraged, delighted or appalled?

"We decided that if you were going to go into combat, you should use a weapon that you are familiar with. Meet your new whip hand, better than any your past self may have used," he stated, patting Drake on his left shoulder.

Cross was fuming; he did not know that this was the arm being constructed for Drake. He pulled Caldera aside.

"Sir, with respect, how the hell is this a good idea?! This could bring back memories, dangerous memories! The old Drake could snap back at any minute!" he warned, anger and worry on his face. Caldera was growing annoyed with Cross.

"Listen to me, and hear me well Cross, we need this kid to be the weapon we have needed for the past year! You have read the reports; other powers are believed to be very close to replicating the science as to what happened in The FAYZ. Do you know what that could mean? Enemy soldiers with telekinetic powers, bio-weapons of mass destruction, armies that could overpower any nation that has not harnessed the power of The FAYZ! I hate to say it, but at the moment we are desperate! And until we figure out why he still has his power while the others lost theirs, and how to replicate it, he is our only weapon against our enemies!" he whispered the last part. Cross looked beat, he wasn't going to argue with is boss when he had this much conviction, and he had a point. The powers of The FAYZ were very capable of being weaponised, and other people seemed to be beating them to it. But he still didn't like this decision.

Caldera turned back to Drake, who now was resting his hand on the mechanical whip arm.

"So, what do you think Drake, are you game?" he asked excitedly as he smiled again.

Drake was still thinking. His past self had used a weapon similar this to inflict so much pain and suffering. He had committed awful atrocities with his whip hand. But yet, the device in front of him was alluring to him. If he could use this weapon to do good, to keep people safe, then maybe, just maybe, he could wash away the memory of the pain he had caused, and replace it with the good he could do. No, the good he would do, he thought to himself.

He turned to Caldera, his lip curling up into a slight smile. What Cross found disturbing was that, considering what he had heard about this boy for the past year, was that it was an actual smile, with no malice behind it.

"When can I put it on?" he asked.

"We can put it on surgically immediately if you wish. Once it is on, it isn't coming off. Is that OK with you?" asked Caldera, slightly worried. Drake could tell he was worried about two things. One was that once Drake had the whip on, his old self could return. The other was that due to recent events, Drake might not be too happy about returning to an operating table. He just smiled.

"Yeah. Let's get this done then," he said.

They had put Drake to sleep after he was put on the table. Memories of his old whip hand were returning, the sound of its supersonic crack… and the skin it flayed. He willed himself, told himself, that he would do good with this device. He would protect people, he would erase the old Drake Merwin. But the more recent memory of the shooting range flowed into focus. Sam Temple. That name enraged him; it caused him to almost lose control. Who was that boy? He also wondered as he slept, could he really erase the old Drake entirely? Then he woke up.

He drifted into a weary consciousness. He opened his bleary eyes. That feeling was back again, that his arm was still there. Two figures were standing over him. He couldn't focus on them, but one was wearing a white suit. Caldera.

Then, he lifted his hands to see them. His left was the same, a human hand. But his right hand appeared as a long metal serpent, gently turning and coiling as if it had a mind of its own. He smirked, his whip hand was back, and this time, it would be different. He would use it for the right reasons, he told himself.

Then, an overwhelming tiredness swept over him, and with a smile, unconsciousness took him again, back to the tormented memories that he was ashamed to call his own.

**Whip-Hand is back! Hehe so please R&amp;R, I love hearing feed back from you guys and I appreciate all of your reviews! :). And for those of you holding out for other characters appearing in the story, do not worry, there will be some familiar faces soon. :3. Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Training is nearly over, it is time to get down to real work!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Drake awoke to complete darkness. It surrounded him, completely cancelling out any light. He almost started to panic, when a metallic clang echoed throughout the space he was in, and a sliver of light appeared in front of him. Two big, steel doors opened and revealed a brightly lit area beyond them. Drake took in his tight surroundings. He was in a metal cargo container. He stood up, shaking off the last remnants of sleep and cautiously walked towards the opening. The smell of the outside world came to him. He took in the scents of cement and machinery. As he stepped outside onto the concrete, he had a complete view of the large area he had found himself in. He was in what looked to be an arena under construction. The area was square shaped, with high, concrete walls. Scaffolding and huge cranes hung overhead. The area was about 200 feet in both length and width. Pillars of stone, huge shards of metal, machinery and smaller unfinished structures littered the arena. Drake narrowed his eyes, his face full of confusion.

"Well, good to see you're awake, Mr Merwin!" spoke a familiar voice from behind him. Drake whipped around and looked up. Standing on a platform about 30 feet above the floor was Caldera, Cross, two scientists and four soldiers.

The scientists were typing on tablets, the soldiers kept straight and kept their eyes on Drake. Cross was staring intensely at him, while Caldera smirked and spread his hands to Drake.

"Welcome to your final test!" he declared with a certain grandeur.

"Test, eh? Am I going into the construction business?" asked Drake, sarcasm miring his voice as he took in the construction site. Caldera laughed.

"Oh no, Mr Merwin, right now you have bigger things to worry about than architectural designs. If you pass this final exam, you will be a fully-fledged member of the FACE task force. You will become our most useful and valuable asset!" he explained.

"However, should you fail this test, well, we are not sure what will happen. This is the first time we have conducted this type of test!" he laughed.

A loud clang echoed from the other side of the arena. Drake turned, at first, nothing seemed unusual. But then he saw them, men in orange jumpsuits entering the arena through doorways. They descended from catwalks and began to spread out. And they were armed with guns.

Drake's heartbeat began to quicken, his survival instincts kicking in.

"All of those convicts you see there have been informed that whoever kills you first goes free forever, free from their encaged lives. You have but one task Drake, survive! It's last man standing!" he declared raising his fist at the last part for dramatic emphasis. Drake turned back to him and snarled:

"No! I said I would not kill any innocents! Just because they are prisoner, does not mean they deserve to die!" he roared, outrage erupting from him.

"Drake, none of these men are innocent. All of them are murderers, rapists and sadists. Have no pity on them, because they will have none on you," explained Caldera, beckoning the oncoming horde.

Drake turned again; the men had now spread out and were surrounding him, just 70 feet away. They were coming into range. His mind raced, he could not kill someone again, not unless he had a good reason to. But what if what Caldera said was true; if these were indeed bad men, then it was them or him. It was at least over a hundred against one. But Drake knew that he had the advantage; immortality tends to give him an edge.

And a whip-fist is pretty useful to.

He remembered his arm. He looked down at it. The mechanical forearm jutted from an armoured shoulder plate. He flicked his arm, and the length of the whip uncoiled from the device, hanging down and coiling on the floor. He did not see it, but a hexagonal contraption on his back shoulder fed into the arm, containing more of the whip, giving it a reach of about twenty feet.

Could he do it? Kill again?

Then, the first hail of bullets sprayed into the concrete above him, one hitting him right in the chest. He gasped for a second, shocked by the impact. But as he looked down, the bullet hole was already sealing itself up. That shot made up his mind. As the man who had shot him smiled nastily just 25 feet away, he aimed to take another shot with his AK-47, when Drake turned to him, giving him a stare that the flames of hell itself could not match with intensity. The man froze, a sudden dread sweeping over him, as his smile quickly disappeared. The first thing that went through his head was the question of how was the kid still standing? The second was the realisation that within a fraction of a second the kid had advanced nearly 10 feet towards him. The third thing would have been him telling himself to raise his gun and fire, but instead, it was the razor edge of Drake's whip hand separating his cerebrum and scalp from the rest of his head.

Drake brought his bloody whip back around as another assailant raised an automatic pistol to fire at him, and it wrapped around both of the mans raised arms. He pulled back with ferocious force, and with him, he brought the man's two arms and hands, still holding the pistol. The convict dropped to his knees and screamed a cry of sheer terror and agony as blood flowed freely from what was left of his arms, like ragged water pipes.

Another hail of bullets tore into Drake's side. He stumbled sideways, but straightened up quickly, becoming more and more accustomed to the feeling of getting shot. It was either that it felt far less painful for Drake, or he was the toughest kid on the planet, Caldera through to himself as he watched in amused awe as the boy tore his way with his mechanised whip through three more convicts, eviscerating them like a cheese-cutter through cheddar.

Drake was now right where he wanted to be, right in the middle of the horde of enraged and terrified convicts. They surrounded him on all sides, and this is where his garrotting whip became its most useful. As the men screamed and blazed at Drake with their rifles, he swirled his whip around his body. It clicked rapidly and menacingly as it formed a spinning ring, shredding and deflecting bullets mid-air. Some rounds went wide and hit other convicts who fell instantly. Some hit Drake, who didn't even seem to notice anymore. His whip became a blur as it continued to spin like a deadly hula-hoop. With a smile, and a flick of his arm, Drake cast the whip out and spun around. The lethal weapon cut straight through skin, flesh, bone and clothing as it continued its rotary course. The first two rows of men were cut clean in half, the third row were disembowelled and dismembered, intestines spilling to the concrete floor and limbs flying in every direction. Within three seconds, he had killed in excess of fifty convicts. A torrent of blood and gore flowed around Drake like a typhoon. Drake smiled a smile that emanated from a part of him that used to be in full control. A bloodlust had now set in.

'Bad men, kill them all!'

'KILL ALL OF THEM!' screamed his mind.

Drake became a flurry of movement as he lashed out at the remaining stragglers, some of who continued to fire at him, some of whom who had dropped their weapons and turned to run. Hands were severed, heads rolled onto the ground, the last moments of terror clear on their freshly dead faces.

Drake was covered from head to toe in blood. It fed him, spurred him on. Some men screamed in sheer terror and ran, stumbling over body parts and slipping on blood. Drake gave chase like a frenzied hound, reaching out with his whip. It slashed across their backs, severing spinal cords and decapitating some. He slashed, he sliced and diced, he garrotted flesh and bodies, and he laughed a delighted laughter as he did so, his shark smile stretching from ear to ear. Twenty men left, then fifteen, then 9, then 4, then 2.

He slashed across the last two men, dismantling one instantly, gashing the other one across the chest. He fell to his hands and knees with an agonised wheeze. As blood spilled from his mouth, he slowly looked up to the boy who had just killed all the men he had entered the arena with. One boy. No, not a boy. A monster, a pure, bloody, hateful monster.

"Please.. please, man," he pleaded to Drake. Drake gazed down at the now pitiful prisoner.

Suddenly, the rage and glee that had taken over him began to ebb. His shark smile faded from his bloody face. He saw the helpless man in front of him, bleeding out like a stuck pig. Drake gazed into the man's pleading eyes. Could he bring himself to kill him; he had just murdered a hundred others in a blood-drunken rage. But now, he stared at the man and had his doubts. His tentacle arm clicked slowly and raised itself, almost willing Drake to lash it out and kill the man.

Then Drake saw the black tear tattooed onto the man's cheek. He saw the horrors behind the man's eyes. But most importantly, he saw his hand slowly reaching for the bloody pistol just next to him.

The man snatched it up and fired. Eight bullets punctured through Drake, two in his head, five in his abdomen and one in his neck. He stood there for a moment, riddled with bleeding, puckered holes. He looked like he might fall back for a second. Then the holes began to close up and disappear like they never existed.

The man held the empty, smoking gun in hand, panting, a look of utter hopelessness forming on his face. Drake locked eyes with him one more time, silently informing the man of his coming fate. For a second, the man looked like he might cry. Then Drake snapped his whip. The pointed end entered the man's eye socket and exited bloodily out the other side of his skull, scattering blood and brain matter. With a low growl, Drake pulled the whip free, and the man slumped down, dead.

Calderas, Cross and the others stared on in a mixture of awe and horror. To Caldera, what he had just seen was a spectacle like no other. He smiled and clapped gleefully. To Cross, he had seen it for what it really was; an inhuman, nightmarish slaughter that could almost be classed as instant genocide. Drake slowly looked around himself. The once grey concrete was now painted red. Limbs, bodies and wet chunks of bodily matter littered the whole arena. It had splashed high up on the walls, it had mired the floor and it had soaked him through to his soul. He looked at his work, now horrified. This was his life; death and death and more death.

'Bad men, Drake,' he willed himself.

But who was he to judge. For all he knew, they could have been just ex-soldiers dressed as prisoners. He fell to his knees and began to sob. Was this what the road to redemption was going to be, paved with the blood of his enemies? As he cried, head down, his whip coiling around his body in an almost comforting manner, Caldera strolled calmly over to him, his white shoes now dipped in crimson. He did not seem to notice. He rested his hand on Drake's shoulder.

"We needed to make sure you could do what had to be done. These are the kind of men you will be dealing with Drake. The whole damn world is full of them. Maniacs, psychos, people who want to control others through fear and pain. You just rid the world of over a hundred of those kinds of people. You will vanquish more, and in doing so you will save millions. This is what we do to protect the innocent, and my friend, you do it very well indeed," he said, trying to bring Drake back from sorrow. Drake took in a few deep breaths, tears mixing with the blood on his face.

He felt like snapping back at Caldera, he felt like turning his whip on the damned man. But he willed himself not to; he knew he was half right. The only way Drake could find redemption was by turning his rage and murderous nature on those who deserved it, in turn protecting the people that needed protecting; good people.

But he had got one half wrong. Caldera was not in this to protect the innocent people of the world; he was in it for furthering his own enterprise. Drake felt a severe resentment towards the man for that. But he knew that the man was his only hope at being able to do good in this world.

Drake slowly got to his feet and began to make his way to the exit to the arena with Caldera and two guards. All the while, Cross silently watched them leave from the platform. This was a mistake, letting that monster be a part of his team. He seethed inwardly at the thought of the notion. He raged even more when he realised it was now inevitable. But he bit his tongue, holding back his anger. He knew that his time would come. He knew that Drake would show his true colours eventually, and when he did, Cross would be there to put him down for good. He reached into his pocket and handled a folded up photograph with care, its touch comforting him. He would kill Drake Merwin eventually. He promised himself that. He promised her that.

**AAAAND SOOOOO! There we have it, another one down! :D. So now it is really going to kick-off! All up to here was just the beginning, so let us hope you and Drake himself are ready for what comes next! ;). **


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Hey Guys! Right, firstly, apologies that it has been so long since I have uploaded a chapter. Organizing College and stuff is not easy let me tell you. :P. Secondly, thanks for all the reviews! Appreciate each and every one of them! :D. So without further delay, let us see how The Devil of Perdido Beach goes about raising some hell. XD **

Cross lay flat on his belly in the sand. Dust and dirt particles were flying through the air. He stared at the base camp through the scope of his sniper rifle. The terrorists had set up their mobile base in a village in the middle of the Afghanistan desert. Dirt rained down, but it was not just from some sandstorm or wind. Just three hours earlier, a group of terrorists had attacked a small town just south of the Shigar border. Now, all that was left of the town was an empty, dusty crater. They had launched a missile from a nearby mountain. Surveillance from a nearby drone showed that when the missile touched down, instead of a massive fireball, a huge shock wave had coursed through the town. Moments later, the very earth beneath the town had begun to rise, along with buildings, cars and people. The entire effected area was torn apart as it continued to rise high into the sky, a dark and colossal wraith of earth gently flowing up into the blue, until all of a sudden, it dropped. Thousands of tonnes of rubble, debris and buildings collided with the ground. Within seconds, the town was nothing but dust. Not one person from the affected area had survived.

He knew what power the terrorists had harvested to create this weapon. The power belonged to a girl named Dekka Talent. From what Cross knew, Dekka was still alive in Wyoming. But these killers had gotten their rotten hands on her power somehow, and they had weaponised it. They had killed over 600 people in one strike. Now Cross had them in his sights. They milled around a few derelict buildings, their missile launcher parked nearby, along with several other transport vehicles. They wore turbans and generally bore the typical look of a mob of extremists. However, they seemed far too well armed to be ordinary terrorists. They had probably bought the weapons from a black market arms dealer who had special connections. They wielded AR-15 rifles and Heckler and Koch machine guns, each heavily customized. Cross counted 53 men in total.

He lay there, the sights of his PSR sniper rifle trained on one of their heads. He could end him there and then; pop open their skulls like a melon. But his orders were simple; lye and wait, provide cover if necessary. It annoyed him, and who he would be covering for annoyed him even more.

Drake lay uncomfortably in his confined space. A gentle hum surrounded him. He could feel a piece of metal jutting into his back, but he was strapped in too tight to do anything about it. Of course, comfort never really came into mind when the engineers back in the States had devised this mode of transport for him; A small metal capsule that could be launched from a ship or a mobile base, and could travel through the air at nearly two times the speed of sound. It was incapable of being locked onto by anti-air systems. That was all well and good, but then there was the fact that the impact of landing would send a bone shattering jolt through the capsule. If it wasn't for his immortality, Drake would be pulverized upon contact with the earth.

As he pondered about what would happen when he touched down onto enemy soil, a massive jolt, followed by a sensation that made it feel like his stomach was floating told him he had just been fired out of the cannon and was rapidly heading towards trouble. He sighed at the notion and fought to keep his control and also to keep his breakfast down. Even with a dozen missions now under his belt, he hated this feeling.

Cross eyed the terrorists as they mingled about their establishment. To his amusement, only one registered the whistling sound that heralded the arrival of the projectile. He had a momentary look of shock and fear on his face before the capsule exploded into view and buried itself into one of the smaller buildings, completely disintegrating it with a sonic boom that cracked across the landscape. Dust and debris was thrown high into the air as the capsule skidded to a stop, a smoking trail in its wake. There was blood mixed with the dirt also; someone had been caught in the projectiles path, obliterated into red mist instantly. The men took shelter first, scattering like a startled flock of sheep and shouting intensely at each other, or just shouted randomly out of fear. As the dust cleared around the capsule, it momentarily fell quiet. Moments later, with the lack of any explosion, some of the men came out of hiding and began to edge forward to the capsule, automatic weapons raised. Cross simply observed intently; He knew what was coming.

The man now closest to the capsule panted heavily, sweat pouring down his face. The capsule was long and silver and looked strong, like a large, armored artillery round. All was still and more men began to surround it. Perhaps it was a failed artillery strike? The man began to feel a sense of relief when his mind went blank, largely due to the side of the capsule that burst from the main body and flew outward, hitting him dead on and shattering every bone in his body to pulp. He sailed through the air, and the terrorists screamed and let loose their guns. Hot lead rattled off the now open container. They continued to hail the wretched thing with bullets, just as a long, metal tentacle shot out from the open compartment and decapitated two of the men, arterial blood spraying over their comrades. Some gunmen shouted and began to move back, others stood their ground and blazed away with their weapons. Their stoic demeanor would soon be completely ripped apart, along with their bodies.

Drake stepped out from the capsule, stretching in the sun, allowing the last few misplaced bones to work their way back into their rightful place. With a satisfying click, everything was where it should be. He only then noticed he had two bullet holes in his side, which were quickly healing up. He wore a light, black tactical vest, which carried ammunition and grenades. A black box hung from his ammo belt. His whip slowly moved back and forth, caring for the lethal bullets that were being fired at it as little as Drake himself cared. Apart from the vest, Drake simply wore a dark blue shirt, jeans and boots. He looked like the most casual soldier/immortal monster in history.

He eyed three men firing at him from his right, and flicked his arm, eviscerating each of them into two pieces. His blood stained whip found more targets to his left. It coiled around a roaring man's neck and proceeded to cut through his neck, leaving his wide-eyed head to drop separately to his body. This was when the once stoic terrorists decided to turn tail and retreat.

Drake grabbed the box off of his ammo belt and pressed a small button with his thumb. The bottom of it flipped out to make a stock and a gun magazine, the trigger positioned just ahead of the magazine. The box was a submachine gun; one Drake had taken a liking to. Along the side of the box/gun was a tribal design of a white snake, fangs bared and facing toward whoever was unlucky enough to be on the business end of the weapon.

He raised it and fired, bullets spraying and hitting three men in the back, red holes littering their backs. The terrorists now fired at him from the buildings. Bullets ripped into Drake, one even taking out his left eye for a moment. It caused a slight stagger in his walk, something which Drake quietly scolded himself for. He yanked a grenade from a pouch on his vest and pulled the pin out with his mouth, casually tossing it into one of the buildings nearby. A few shouts of panic came from inside before the house burst into flames, sending men flying and burning from its roof and windows. Drake found incendiary grenades more effective than the ordinary type.

A window on the second floor of another building was kicked outward, and the malicious barrel of a heavy 50 caliber machine gun poked out from the shadows to greet Drake. It began to breathe fire and spit lead at Drake, huge rounds searing the air. Two massive holes appeared in his stomach, sending intestinal matter out the other side of him. He grunted and doubled over for a second, taking in a fresh gasp of air as another bullet cut a canyon down his back. Wide eyed, he smiled at the earth.

Now you're taking me seriously, he thought to himself.

His wounds closed up and he whipped his arm back, uncoiling the whip's full length. Each segment of the whip began to rotate rapidly, and tiny razors revealed themselves from within the links on the weapon. Drake roared and lashed out. The whip cut through the air and sliced into the building, eviscerating a diagonal line through the entire building. Support beams, along with men, were bisected and fell apart. The house's top half suddenly crumbled, crushing anyone inside. Drake cracked the whip menacingly. He had just cut an entire building in half.

The last bastion of the terrorists crowded around the missile launcher that they had used to destroy the town. They blazed at Drake with their weapons. As bullets whizzed by him, with the occasional one burying into him, Drake took out two earphones from his pocket. With a sigh, he put them into his ears, which was pretty tricky, seeing as one hand was holding a smoking gun and the other was a bloody, metallic death-snake.

A second before he pressed play on the little iPod in his pocket, Drake thought of the pictures he had seen of the destruction these men had wreaked.

'They're terrorists, Drake. That means you don't have to feel bad about killing them,' a voice inside his head spoke to him.

He wasn't so sure about that; he knew very well that terrorist was a relative term depending on where you're from. These men were murderers however, and he knew that he had no qualms about killing murderers. He had had plenty of practice at this stage. He clicked play.

Motley Crue, Kickstart my Heart started playing. Drake had discovered that while most music was just noise to him, some good old rock and roll seemed to help blank out the bad things he would do in battle. And, if he was very honest, he would admit it was very fun music to fight to.

The guitar blared and the main riff kicked off, and so did Drake. He charged headlong into the lethal hail of lead. Within a second he had closed the gap to the missile launcher. He fired his gun, cutting down several gunmen. He lashed out with his whip, dismembering more unfortunate soldiers who thought that bullets could kill Drake Merwin.

As the lyrics roared and the drums smashed and the guitar screamed, Drake went into his usual frenzy of bloody carnage. Men screamed and fell to pieces, both mentally and physically. A sweeping strike from his whip sliced right through the launcher, followed by an explosion of searing heat that momentarily burned the flesh off of Drake's face, but it was soon replaced. The song played, and the deaths continued to rise. The Devil of Perdido Beach was in his element. And in this habitat, he was the top predator.

Cross and his team looked on from afar. They had seen it several times over. In Serbia, where they took out a military complex manufacturing a satellite that could focus the heat energy the mutant Sam Temple had once been able to use. Another time in China, where they destroyed a facility attempting to re-create the teleportation ability that a mutant called Taylor had utilized. Over and over again, Cross and his team had had to sit back as Drake massacred every hostile person in the area. All the while, Caldera's men would come in and take whatever they could find and bring it back to base for study. Cross and his team were becoming obsolete, all because of a boy with a whip and a healing factor, an ex blood-stained sadist.

'Bide your time, Cross,' he thought to himself.

'Bide your time,'

The song finished. Drake began to slip out of his murderous rampage. He panted, taking in deep breaths as silence returned to him. All around him, chunks and pieces of men lay. Blood mixed with the dirt, and his whip slowly moved like a lethargic serpent through the red mire, bathing in the abattoir. His mind was blank. He had nothing to say and nothing to feel. It was all familiar territory now. War was just something he seemed to have a knack for. He pressed the button on his shirt collar and gave the all-clear. Minutes later, as the sound of approaching helicopters became audible, a thought crossed Drake's mind.

"Seems like a pretty bloody path to inner piece,"

As quickly as it came, it was gone, dissipated into the scrambled and still fevered mind of a monster still not sure as to what it was. He was too absorbed in a stark feeling of un-feeling to notice the thought.

**Well, after here things are going to get very strange for Drake. His so-called path of "redemption" may just take a very dark and very bloody turn, even bloodier than the path he is already on. Things are never, ever as they seem. Please Rate and Review guys and let me know what you all think. :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**Hey Guys! Thank you for sticking with me this far, and thank you all so much for your reviews! I really appreciate it so much! :). So, without further delay, here we go!**

Then they came again. The images, the memories and all the horror and grief that came with them. Suffering, death and a green shape-shifting monster was all that played over in his head. They had become a part of him now; every time he closed his eyes, the snap shots of his old life ravaged the black matter of his brain.

Then came the siren, a blaring sound that pulled him from his tormented slumber. He slipped into consciousness, and found himself within the interior of a military plane. Cross and his team of twelve men sat nearby, each tending to their own matters, such as checking their firearms.

They were all in a relatively small aircraft, at least compared to the plane they were heading to. Three hours prior, an airbus travelling from Sydney to Singapore had been hijacked. The distress call that went out had been panicked and all that was registered was that terrorists on board had employed some special type of energy weapon system. Caldera's analysts had determined that they had acquired the power of a dead mutant called Hunter, who could project lethal energy from his hands.

As Drake looked out the porthole window on their aircraft, he could see the airbus coming into view. Their aircraft was specially designed, like a large, metallic kite. It was a modified stealth bomber, with the bomb bay being turned into a personnel carrier.

"Alright men, we are dropping in T-minus one minute," Cross began.

"Our mission is to terminate the terrorists, acquire their weaponry and land that plane safely at the next airstrip. Now we are all taking part in this mission, as this is too sensitive for Drake to handle alone. Also, I don't think Merwin knows how to fly an airbus, so we finally get to have some fun," he finished without ever looking at Drake.

Drake ignored the statement and moved to the back of the aircraft with the rest of the men as they began attaching wires that hung from the roof of the cabin onto harnesses they all wore. As Drake secured his, the back of the aircraft opened. A barrage of noise and wind assaulted him as he stared into the now open view of the top of the airbus, and the clouds beneath it. All the men wore oxygen mask, all except Drake. He found that breathing to him was more of a habit rather than a necessity.

"Once we breach the aircraft, take down any hostiles you see. Do not give them a chance to open fire on the civilians!" shouted Cross over the wind.

A siren sounded, and three men pulled three, large harpoon guns from a compartment above the opening. They aimed at the airbus and fired. Three harpoons shot out and ploughed into the other aircraft, long lines of metallic wire trailing behind them. The men secured the guns to specialised holding compartments above the door. Once secure, they clipped their harness onto the wire, and jumped out of the bomber, attached to both the harpoon wire and the safety wire.

It was crazy, Drake was sure of that much. But hell, at least it would be an experience. He clipped himself onto the wire and, with a deep breath, leapt into the sky below. A colossal adrenalin rush shot through him as he sailed down through the air. All that was above was blue, and all that was below was white, covering more blue. To say it was surreal was an understatement.

As he touched down on the airbus, he realised how massive it was. Clearing out this thing was going to be a challenge. As he landed, he unclipped himself from the harpoon wire. Now he was only clipped to the wire leading back up to the stealth craft. Tremendous wind buffeted his face, and it was difficult to keep his eyes open. But he knew where to go. He and the men that had landed made their way to a hatch just twenty feet up from where they landed. It was hard to stand, but Drake slowly moved forward, inwardly laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. Cross landed behind Drake and followed suit.

As the first man reached the hatch, he pulled it open. The compartment inside was specially designed so that its de-pressurisation would not cause the plane to lose control. As the first man stepped down into the hatch, gun at the ready, he unclipped the safety wire from his harness and it whizzed back up into the other aircraft. Each soldier did the same as they entered the hatch. Six men were now through the hatch, three were on the outside of the plane (excluding Drake and Cross) and three were still in the stealth craft.

Drake stepped into the hatch and was about to unclip himself when some men on the other aircraft began to shout. Cross looked back up at them. They were shouting and pointing at something on the side of the airbus. Cross looked down to see that a side door on the plane had been opened, and looking out from it was a man in military gear. But what they were shouting at was the large weapon he was pointing at the stealth craft. It was bulky and black, and instead of a barrel, it had what looked like a satellite dish. A faint, blue light appeared on the dish, and a line of distorted air appeared from it, hitting the stealth craft. It was clear to Cross; it was an energy weapon. He raised his gun to fire, but the plane he had just come from suddenly burst into a huge fireball.

Drake only saw the explosion. The three men within the aircraft were incinerated instantly. As the stealth bomber quickly began to tilt and fall apart, Drake realised Cross and the three men were still attached to the plane. As the bomber fell off to one side in an inferno, Drake uncoiled his whip and lashed out as fast and as far as he could, severing the wires attached to Cross and one other soldier. But he was too late for the other two. They were yanked into the open air. And as Cross gripped the edge of the hatch with one hand and the remaining soldier with the other giving Drake a look that was a mix of shock, disbelief and gratitude, a brief realisation came to Drake; he was still clipped to his own wire.

'Shit' was all he had time to think of.

Drake was pulled up into the sky. Everything slowed down for him. The stealth craft was burning and plummeting into the clouds below, himself and two other men going down with it. The airbus was traversing from being below him to his right to quickly becoming above him. He reacted instinctively. He lashed out at his wire and severed it with his whip. As the line snapped, he spun mid-air. He uncoiled the whip to its full length as he swung out to grab the nearest thing he could reach. The metallic tentacle coiled around the wing of the plane and went taught. With a jarring pull, Drake found himself no longer falling. He was now being towed by an airbus at 35'000 feet.

Drake screamed a curse as he stared wide-eyed into the oblivion below him. He began to re-coil the whip, which had deployed razors to secure itself to the wing. Huge gusts of air barraged him as he flailed behind the wing like a kite in a hurricane. He came closer to the wing; twenty feet, fifteen, ten, five, until he reached out and clutched the aircraft with his other hand.

"What?! What the hell do you mean he is gone?" shouted Caldera at Cross from the other end of the communications line.

"Our plane went down and he, Jameson and Connors were still attached to it," explained Cross as he moved slowly through a corridor in the passenger area of the plane, gun raised.

"Damn it, Cross! You were supposed to be HIS support team! He was our secret weapon, our only advantage against our enemies! If this is some kind of revenge trick you're playing here I will murder you!" roared Caldera.

"Sir, with respect, I-"he was cut off as he rounded a corner and was greeted by two men fifteen feet away holding two energy guns raised at him.

"Shit!" he shouted as he leapt back, just as the weapons fired.

A soldier called Mendez who had also rounded the corner was a second too slow. He screamed as invisible microwaves hit him and cooked him alive. A second of agony passed by before his head and abdomen exploded, coating Cross and the surrounding area with gore. Cross pointed the barrel of his gun just around the corner and fired. By the thud and gargle of blood that followed, he deduced that he had taken one of the assailants out. The other one backed up and pressed himself into the wall just around the corner, firing a beam of energy back at Cross.

"Ah, damn it!" he shouted as his gun sparked and his hand burned.

He was just brushed by the beam, but his gun was ruined and his trigger hand was now scalded. The glove he was wearing smoked and fell to pieces, and the flesh under it was red raw and stung like hell. Two of his men pulled him back and returned fire around the corner.

The assailant was joined by two more men carrying similar weapons. He gestured to them to fire down the corridor. They stepped out and fired two beams, forcing Cross' team to pull back. The man smiled and came along behind them as they made their way down the hallway, blazing the area with deadly energy. Soon this problem would be dealt with. He chuckled menacingly to himself.

Just then he halted. Something outside the window caught his eye. He turned and saw a dark shape on the wing of the plane. Just as he focused on it, he realised too late as to what it was. It was a young man, merely a boy, aiming a submachine gun at the window. The gun flashed and the window shattered. The hijacker didn't even have time to react before him, his two associates and a large section of the plane's frame were pulled out into the sky.

Drake ducked as chunks of the side of the plane were ripped away, depressurisation and physics rending them from the main body. Men flew away with the pieces too. He was glad to see none of them were his team. The airbus tilted downward and Drake once again found himself hanging in the air, his whip still firmly clamped to the wing. He cursed as the plane plummeted downwards and seriously questioned the viability of his plan.

Cross held on to a rail as the plane went into free fall. For what seemed like an eternity, he gritted his teeth and held on as hard as he could as his stomach floated, as well as his body. Then finally, the airbus levelled out. He panted for a few seconds before un-holstering his pistol with his remaining good hand and aiming it down the corridor. It was empty, and he gestured to his men to follow.

"I retract that last statement, Sir. He's still here," exclaimed Cross.

Seconds later he found himself arriving in the main passenger area. As he poked his head around the corner, he saw rows of panicked civilians holding their heads down and stuttering panicked phrases. Babies were crying and children were weeping. Oh, and there was also a hijacker raising his microwave weapon at him. Cross pulled back just a millisecond before a beam of energy began to burn into the wall where his head had just been. Metal sparked like tinfoil in a microwave and the thin, inner walls of the aircraft smoked and burned. But his men were ready.

The second the beam stopped, the man behind him, Watson, one of the men Drake had beaten in training, rushed to the other side of the doorway and pressed himself against the far wall as an enraged cry and deadly beam shot from the terrorist. The weapon was burning away the back wall entirely, metal sparking wildly. Cross nodded to Watson, who nodded back and stood still for a second.

Cross acted first, he hunkered down and aimed his pistol out at floor level. Within a second, before the man could draw his weapon downward, Cross fired a round into the man's foot. The hijacker screamed and fell, and Watson rounded the corner and fired a shot into the man's head, silencing him with a messy spray of brain matter. As two more men appeared from the other end of the isle, people screamed and Watson and Cross fired several rounds, downing both assailants before they could raise their weapons. Cross proceeded to lead his team down the isle of panicked people keeping their heads down. There was still more work to do.

Drake finally re-secured himself on the wing of the plane. He decided it was about time he actually got inside the aircraft. Then, just ahead of him, a side door on the plane opened, and a terrorist brandishing a microwave laser aimed maliciously at him. The man smiled, his eyes hidden behind aviator glasses.

"Aw, crap, this is going to hurt," muttered Drake before the beam hit him.

His skin boiled and steamed as it rapidly fell and flaked away, shooting backwards with the wind, leaving a trail of cooked meat. He roared at the top of his lungs up into the endless blue as pain filled every cell in his body. Brain matter poured out of his ears and his eyes burst, but his whip held on to the wing of the airbus firmly.

After what seemed like an age, the beam stopped. Drake was a mess, his flesh hung off in rags and his face was a contorted image of red. But, to the hijackers shock, his flesh rapidly began replacing itself. The pain subsided, his eyes reformed, and when he was more or less whole again, Drake smiled; he had been clever.

Just before the beam hit him he tucked his gun under his knee so that it wouldn't be hit by the microwaves. Now it was his draw.

He whipped the gun out from under him and fired a hail of lead at the terrorist. As geysers of blood erupted from his chest, the man dropped the weapon and fell out the door. He screamed and sailed through the air and right into the path of one of the jet engines. In an explosion of red mist, the man was sucked in and shredded instantly. Drake cursed loudly as the engine coughed and sputtered as it lost power.

The plane began to tilt again. More slowly this time and at a more even level, but it was going down none the less. Drake looked on as they started to descend into the clouds.

"Oh….. Oops,"

Five minutes later and Drake was in the plain. Cross and his team had managed to eradicate the rest of the hijackers. They were both a state, with Drake bearing seared and smoking clothes and Cross being covered in blood.

"We have only a couple of minutes before we hit the water," said Cross over the rush of wind.

"Is Caldera sending anything like, another plane or a flying freaking horse or something?" Drake asked.

"He's sent an evac, should be here in just a second," answered Cross.

"Great! Then let's get these passengers round up and out of here," said Drake enthusiastically.

But then he noticed something; Cross took on a grim look after that statement. It was the look of a man about to do something he did not want to.

Suddenly, another stealth craft appeared alongside the descending plane. From its side, a long tube extended and slowly secured itself to a side door. It was basically a hallway between planes. But Drake looked at the stealth craft; it was no different than the one they had arrived in.

"Cross, there's no way in hell we can fit all these passengers on that thing!" stated Drake, pointing to the panicking people in the cabin.

Cross stared solemnly at Drake.

"Caldera wants weapons, not witnesses," he grimly stated.

Drake stood there, completely dumbfounded. It couldn't be, this was not what he signed up for. He signed up to help people, not to gather guns for FACE.

"What? No, we are not getting off this plane until everyone is off!" shouted Drake over the howl of rushing air.

Cross turned around and opened the side door as his men began to carry the energy weapons through it.

"We can't save these people, Drake. We have our orders," said Cross without looking at Drake.

"What the- then stuff the orders, we need to get these people out of here!" exclaimed Drake. The ocean below was now in full view.

"We are not jeopardising this-"he was cut off when Drake cursed and drew his gun on Cross, pressing it to his head. The other men dropped the equipment and raised their weapons at Drake, ready to fire.

"You tell your men to take every passenger they can onto this aircraft. We are not choosing guns over lives!" he growled at Cross. He heard some of the passengers tart to panic as they realised something was wrong.

Drake was ready to pull the trigger. If they couldn't save these people, then they sure as hell would stay with them. But then he noticed something in Cross' eyes. It was almost as if every part of Cross wanted to agree with Drake, but couldn't. No matter how much it pained him to admit that Drake was right, he genuinely wanted to forget about the orders.

"I know that you do not want to do this, so don't. Surely we can do something, level the plane out, make it a soft landing, anything!" pleaded Drake.

"Well see Mr Merwin, he is not being paid to do that. He is being paid to obey me," a voice in the intercom in Drake's ear spoke. Caldera.

"You bastard, tell your men to drop everything and help these people or I swear to God I will kill you!" Drake growled.

"Really? Seeing as you're in a rapidly plummeting aircraft heading in the Indonesian ocean, I'd find that rather hard to believe. Now put down your gun, follow your orders, and come home," demanded Caldera calmly.

"This is what it has been about all along, hasn't it? You don't care about making heroes or saving people, you want weapons for your stupid government!" shouted Drake. The people in the cabin were in stark terror now as the ocean neared. The soldiers still had their guns trained on Drake. Cross simply stared at him with the faintest trace of a pained expression on his stone face.

"Drake, if you really think that we are in this business to save lives, you are a damn fool. We are in business to further our own influence and power. And to make a profit, of course," explained Caldera, chuckling after the last bit.

"Not at the expense of innocent lives!" roared Drake, tightening his grip on his weapon, his whip uncoiling and menacingly raising.

"You have one more chance to comply, Drake. Drop your gun and stand down!" demanded Caldera angrily.

"Go blow yourself you uptight shit!" snapped Drake.

He heard a sigh from the other end of the line.

"Have it your way," said Caldera calmly.

Several large caliber bullets ripped through the frame of the jet and ploughed into Drake, blowing holes in him and sending him flying backwards. The machine gun turret on the side of the stealth craft continued to perforate him, sending his gun flying out of his hand, until one final round hit him in the chest and blew Drake out of a window on the other side of the plane.

Drake fell through the air. As the wounds closed up, he roared in pure rage and thrashed as he continued to plummet. The blue sea came closer and closer, until the cold jarring shock of the water hit him and he shot beneath the surface. He struggled to the surface moments later.

He burst out of the water and looked around for the plane. To his right, in the distance, he could see the two aircraft descending. They came closer and closer to the horizon. Drake pleaded inwardly, hoping that through some kind of miracle the airbus would just rise up and fly to safety. But then, the long pipe that attached the two planes together retracted, freeing the stealth craft, and it banked away and up into the sky. His breath retracted just as the airbus hit the water. Instantly, it was ripped apart and rolled over the surface, and was followed by a colossal explosion. The sound took several seconds to reach Drake, and it came to him as a muffled boom over the endless blue.

Drake was still, he remained there treading water, just as an overwhelming despair seeped into his mind as he gazed upon the slowly sinking wreckage and settling water far off in the distance. He rolled with the small waves. He was speechless. Those people, all of those innocent people, men, women, children, even babies, were all dead. And he had been a part of it.

He choked up. He really was no different from the old Drake. All alone it the expanse of crystal blue ocean, he screamed at the top of his lungs, scalding his throat raw. He screamed until he could scream no more. Then, he just floated there. He was now consumed by complete despair. He didn't care to swim, if he slipped beneath the waves he still would not die. But he wanted to. He wanted to just sink to the bottom and remain there, let the sea do what it wishes to him. He had failed. He had been the key player in the deaths of all those innocent lives, and now he surrendered himself to sorrow.

As he drifted in the water, comatose with sorrow, he did not notice himself drifting towards an island. He did not take notice to the seabirds flying out overhead to the crash site, chattering and screeching at the prospect of fresh meat. He did not notice the occasional fin drift through the water close to him. He just drifted.

**So there it is guys, the turning point! Now Drakes journey is on a different course, one that will see him reunite with some old acquaintances. ;). Please Rate and Review, it is always greatly appreciated, and stay tuned for the next leg of our journey! :)**


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